~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
A translucent ivory wonder caught my eye,
an origami of leaves depicting exotic cranes
of some sort, or swans perhaps, just landing.
They could be angels for all I know.
But here they are, yet another
amazement on this fine mid-spring day.
When I first spotted the tulip’s pale petals
I thought this poor blossom was a victim
of the night’s freezing temperatures, the way
she was bent to the ground, dusted with soil.
But as I tended to the garden where she grew
I saw that she was quite alive, and wanting
to stand, but for the little heap of dirt caught
in her curved petal and holding her down.
Making a wish, I softly blew across her petal
and the dirt flew away and she stood, bowed,
but grateful to be free. I noticed that the freeze
stunted one of her petals after all. “No matter,”
I told her. “None of us is without our flaws.
Why, just getting here in the first place
is no walk in the park. We should all be glad
we’re here at all. I, myself, am glad you came,
and so happy that you’re my neighbor.”
When I saw her again a couple hours later
she was standing tall and smiling.
Me, too.
It’s not that nature’s beauty consumes me.
It’s the refuge it provides from the rest of it,
from conflicts and disasters large and small
that blanket the globe; from the endless prattle
of the lonely, because that is the only way
they know to mark the world with their presence,
to connect, to find meaning; from the struggles
for survival, for status, for power, for control,
and for all the touted doodads that promise
to convey them, or to provide relief from the fight.
Walk in the woods. Listen to the trees.
Observe the details in the smallest flower.
See the seasons unfold. Watch the clouds
and stars float above you. Take solace
in an order beyond our knowing, a power
and intelligence we cannot comprehend.
Feel how you are a child of it, how you move
within its omnipresent embrace, loved
even when you are asleep in it, unconscious
of its plan and grace and mercy. Wonder
at its intricacy, its obedience to inviolable laws.
Think how this is but the skin the Yes wears,
this mysterious, ever-dancing curtain of matter.
Think how majestic is the Yes which brought it
into being and bestowed on us our capacities
to see, to taste, to move and desire, to seek,
to find, to love, and to know.
I was going to do my errands first,
then stop at the lake on my way home.
But an impulse prompted me: Stop now.
It was a cool morning, full of sunlight,
blue skies, puffy clouds. Geese sifted
through the grasses at the lakes’ edge
for their breakfast. A lone fisherman
was perched on the far shore. The air
was fresh and tasted like springtime.
As I hiked the worn path lining the lake
I spotted something up ahead. A goose,
crossing the path with five fuzzy babies,
heading toward the water for a swim.
I inched toward them. She was unafraid,
but watchful, and I kept my distance
out of respect as she gathered her brood
on the shore. Moments later, her mate
appeared and the two of them led the chicks
into the water and family floated away.
I watched them for a long while, smiling
and thankful that some impulse told me
something here needed me to see it.
It’s not the circumstances that matter.
So what if, at any moment, this messy world
comes to an end? It has nothing to do
with me, with now. The trees are
dancing in green hoorahs and the earth
is covered in flowers. The mammoths,
they say, died while eating daisies.
If the world ends in ten minutes,
I shall leave it dancing with joy.
Some moments
make all the rest of them
worth it.
When I was surfing through miscellaneous videos this week I happened across one that said, given all the stress in our worlds these days, it’s important to give ourselves a little extra care. She recommended that we each do 3 things daily to care for ourselves, even if they’re only very small things.
That seemed like good advice, of course, but it brought to mind articles I’d see in magazines with titles like “10 Things to Do for Instant Happiness.” They’d list ten little things in an inane kind of way and you’d get a little smile from it and go on with your day. None of them ever said, “No, Seriously! Do these 10 things.” But maybe they should have.
Anyway, I thought it might be fun to see if I could come up with a list of mood-brighteners. I jotted down these:
* Spend a few quality minutes with your pet. Even if your pet is a plant or a rock.
* Go for a walk. Find a tree. Look at its bark, its shape, its leaves, its movement. Put your hand on its trunk and see what you feel.
* Watch a bird fly. Imagine what it feels like to fly like that, to see what a bird would see.
* Put on some great music and let it move you.
* Stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself out loud three things you really like about yourself.
* Get a brief glimpse into the world of elephants from National Geographic on YouTube.
I was right. It was fun to see what ideas flew into my mind. (And finding the elephant video was pretty cool, too.)
But then I remembered what I wanted to focus on was the idea of doing three things each day to show yourself that you care about you. Seriously. In fact, I think consciously choosing to do just three things for yourself each day could be a game-changer.
I already do lots of things in a day because I know I’ll enjoy them. Lots and lots. I dive right into most days on the lookout for treats and surprises. It’s healthy to expect joy in life. But what if I decided to do something inspirational, or pleasurable, or beneficial with conscious attention to the fact that I was doing it for myself simply as a way of caring for me, of appreciating myself? What if I asked myself what I could do for me and then followed through on whatever idea came to mind? What if I took just a moment each day, one in the morning, one at noon, one at night, to do something that brought me comfort, or satisfaction, or contentment, or peace?
What if I made that a habit? What if I committed to doing it every day, no matter what?
I kind of like those “what if’s.” They intrigue me. I think I’m going to give it a whirl. How about you? Seriously.
Wishing you a fine week.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Neil Morrell from Pixabay
I don’t think I ever told you, but maybe
from the way I smile at you, you know.
Let me tell you anyway. I think of you
as a sort of honor guard for spring, bearing
so boldly your flags of variegated green,
as if green were everything, your way of being,
the wave that brought you to dance in the sun,
to put forth tall flowers and offer your seed
that green might forever go on. Green,
your path and purpose. And now is your season,
and I salute you and your song.
Near the middle of April, the south slope
begins to don its green, all gossamer,
as if the hue were floating above the soil.
In the morning light, it’s intense and glittering,
as if cut emeralds were scattered across the land.
But around noon, when the sun is white and high
and the shadows of the trees run straight downhill,
ten thousand spring beauties steal the scene,
their tiny star petals sparkling in the light,
and I, turning to see them, give thanks
that they and I are here, at this brief moment
in time, in mid-April, when birds sing in the woods,
and the world wears a certain light.
A school bus passes by and suddenly
I am ten years old, just finishing fifth grade,
riding home with my classmates, all of whom
are bursting with anticipation for the moment
the bus comes to a stop, and the door opens,
and we are free. Free! And it’s springtime,
and we have hours to play before supper.
We open the windows to let in the perfumed air,
bouncing on brown leather seats as the bus
rolls through the potholes. We look to see
if Jamie’s golden retriever is waiting for him
at the edge of the road as we come to a stop
and the red metal flag pops out from the side
by the driver to tell the cars around us to stop
so Jamie can safely cross the road. The dog’s
whole body is wiggling as he waits. The bus
makes bus noises as we move on. We count
the stops before home. Only two more. Then me.